The Harvestman


When winds grow cold and the moon grows bold,
When the ears are full and ripe and old,
When leaves turn red, and brown, and gold,
The Harvestman will come.

Tall as corn and thin as thread,
With hat of black and cricket's head,
To catch the children out of bed,
The Harvestman does come.

Through fields and up and down the lane,
He walks before the Autumn rain,
And leads the careless by his cane,
The Harvestman does come.

Gone at first of Winter's kiss,
When frost makes white and waters crisp,
Away with children like a wisp,
The Harvestman has come.

And oh the children will be missed,
When the Harvestman has come.

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